


The New Covenant

by Mithen



Category: Vassalord
Genre: Blood Drinking, Fighting As Foreplay, M/M, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rayflo and Chris are still getting used to this new life together, and sometimes a good old-fashioned swordfight is comfortingly familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Covenant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



_ This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me. --1 Corinthians 11:25 _

_"Cherrrryyyyy!"_ Rayflo's anguished howl reaches Chris before he's all the way across the threshold.

He grabs his sword from the umbrella stand and parries Rayflo's attack effortlessly.

 _"How could you, Cherry?"_ Rayflo's voice is a petulant whine; he swipes again and Chris rolls out of the way

"It's Charley," he says out of habit, and sees dark laughter spark in Rayflo's eyes, quickly tamped down.

"Did you think I wouldn't turn on the television? Did you think I wouldn't see you with that tramp? That hussy?" Rayflo lunges and Chris hears his shirt rip. Damn it, he rather liked that shirt. It's unfair that Rayflo always fights shirtless.

Not to mention distracting.

He goes on the offensive, driving Rayflo back with each thrust. Rayflo leaps onto the back of a chair, twisting gracefully, then landing catlike on the floor. He hurls crystal bric-a-brac, seized from a shelf; Chris catches each one and puts it back while still parrying his attacks. Minea would never forgive them if they actually broke anything of value, after all.

"She's not a hussy, she's an actress. And you know perfectly well I have to make media appearances now and then, since--" The blade clips a lock of dark hair, and strands float in the air for a moment, "--we need money to live, after all." The sword glints between them, almost as sharp as their gazes.

"She was draped all over you! And you were enjoying yourself! Admit it!"

Minea peeks into the living room, takes in the scene with incurious eyes, and withdraws.

Rayflo dodges left and Chris's blade catches him a glancing blow across the chest; a bright line of scarlet springs up in its wake and spills over, trailing down his bare stomach.

Chris drops into a defensive crouch and for a long moment they stare at each other. "I will admit no such thing," Chris says, and is as always surprised at how even his voice is. "I thought of nothing but you the whole evening, and you know it. Your mouth, and your teeth, and your blood." He throws the sword down with a clatter and advances on Rayflo, the hunter and the prey, both at once. "Master," he adds as if it were an afterthought.

"Cherry," smirks Rayflo. He runs a finger across the cut on his chest and holds it up, smeared with crimson.

Chris leans forward and takes it in his mouth, savoring the bitter tang of it as he sinks to his knees in front of Rayflo.

He slips his tongue between Rayflo's fingers and feels them tremble at his demanding caress. "You know," he whispers as he undoes Rayflo's belt buckle, "You don't have to goad me into fighting with you any more." He pushes Rayflo up against the wall and licks up one of the trailing drops of blood, his tongue lingering across the lean muscles of Rayflo's abdomen. "I know my place."

Considering he is kneeling at Rayflo's feet, that could sound submissive.

He knows it does not.

Sinfully tight jeans slip to the floor, and Chris leans close, lets his lips ghost across the soft flesh of Rayflo's inner thigh. He hears Rayflo's head thump up against the wall; his knees sag slightly.

"I don't…" Rayflo's voice is huskier than usual, and the sharp edges are blurred with something Chris cannot place. "I don't know how to do this. All this. With you. Without fighting."

"Yes you do," says Chris. "Just...don't fight. It's easy." He brushes aching fangs across pale skin, listening to the blood thundering in the femoral artery. Soon.

A shaky laugh. " _Easy,_ " Rayflo murmurs as if it were a curse, as if it were a prayer.

"Yes." Impossible to say more, to speak through the haze of longing and need; the single word will have to suffice.

"Don't make me wait any longer," Rayflo says, and his legs are trembling. It's not a command, but the impossible idea of Rayflo pleading makes Chris feel like he might weep (with pain or joy, he doesn't know; so often with them they are the same thing), it is unbearable.

Gently, so gently, he closes his mouth over Rayflo's skin and lets his fangs slip home.

Rayflo makes a small sound at the sensation, and Chris closes his eyes, dizzy with the bliss of it. Strange, so very strange, to feed when he isn't starving, isn't half-mad with hunger. To linger, to sip, to savor the taste of his Master. He can taste the desire in Rayflo's blood, can feel him hardening; he reaches with one hand to caress and claim, and this is new as well, this frank need between them. So much is new, the whole world is renewed and reborn, wise as serpents and innocent as doves and beautiful, so beautiful. Behold the new sacrament, sealed in blood and love, which wipes clear the old laws.

 _Thank you for this gift,_ he thinks, unsure exactly whom he is thanking. Surely it cannot be the Lord God, and yet… _Thank you_.

* * *

_Long, long ago there was a priest who, in despair and in rage, severed his own hands, for they could no longer touch the holy texts without agony._

In the darkness of their room together, Chris traces the healing marks of their passion on Rayflo's skin, feeling the roughness and the smoothness with a kind of wondering awe.

_Long ago there was a priest who tore out his own throat, for it could no longer pray without blistering._

He whispers against Rayflo's skin: words of devotion and love, a psalm of thanksgiving.

_Long ago there was a priest who cut off his own ears, for they could no longer hear sacred hymns without anguish._

He feels Rayflo's hand cup the back of his head, pulling him close, and hears him whisper his name, his truest name, the one given to a lost child by a kind stranger so long ago:

"My Chris, my dearest Chris."

And he knows that Rayflo is the only text, the only prayer, the only hymn that he needs.


End file.
